


When Things get out of Line

by wyrmy



Series: Our Hopes of Endless Light [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Autistic Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale was a Cherub, Canon Compliant, Crowley is very sweet but he's not a mind reader, Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Developing Relationship, First Kiss, Getting Together, Hurt No Comfort, Lack of Communication, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Canon, Quote: You go too fast for me Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:48:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28154877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyrmy/pseuds/wyrmy
Summary: In the wake of the averted Apocalypse, everything ought to have gotten easier. Surely now that the world has been saved, now that his relationship with Crowley is progressing, deepening in the way he always dreamed of, Aziraphale ought to be able to relax a little.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Our Hopes of Endless Light [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1980841
Comments: 10
Kudos: 59





	When Things get out of Line

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from "Louise's Song" by Stan Rogers which I am obsessed with at the moment.

When they had finished eating at the Ritz, and when Aziraphale’s giddy relief was starting to take on a desperate edge, he invited Crowley back to the restored bookshop for a drink. He was pleased that Crowley accepted, given everything, which meant that it took longer than it should have for him to notice how tense Crowley was, sitting almost as stiffly as Aziraphale himself, taking only the smallest sips of wine from his glass.

“What is it, my dear?” he asked

“nyeegh, uhhh,” Crowley waved his glass around vaguely, “I was in the shop when-”

“When it burned?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” It sounded terribly inadequate.

“Look, um. Obviously you don’t have to say yes, but, uh, can I hug you?” Crowley looked afraid and hopeful. Aziraphale set his wineglass down, feeling like a fool, feeling unreal. He had never hugged Crowley before. He’d hugged angels and humans before but always out of a sense of obligation, never because he actually wanted to, which made this something of a momentous occasion. He was horribly aware of how shaky and awkward he was as he got up and shuffled over to sit on the sofa beside Crowley. They both smiled at each other, Aziraphale encouragingly, Crowley with mild surprise. Then Aziraphale hugged him. 

Crowley was worryingly thin and bony, but marvellously warm and real, and he buried his face in Crowley’s neck, inhaling his wonderful, distinct smell, reveling in the softness of Crowley’s jacket against his face. Then Crowley brought his arms up and embraced Aziraphale and he felt himself melt. Tears unexpectedly stung his eyes as his exhaustion and fear seemed to drain out of him and he felt safer than he had in over six thousand years. Crowley cared about him, despite everything. He was so lucky, luckier than any other creature, to be loved like this, whatever form it took. From now on, he thought, he would devote himself to being worthy of this. He would become a better person, he would learn how to be good, for Crowley’s sake.

Crowley pulled back and Aziraphale nearly clung to him, sitting back at the last moment, frantically trying to dash the silly tears out of his eyes before Crowley saw. Mercifully Crowley wasn’t looking, fussing about with removing his sunglasses and blowing his nose on a tissue that he may have produced from his sleeve. Aziraphale realized with horror that Crowley was crying. 

“I thought I’d lost you, angel,” he said in a blurry voice and Aziraphale was riven again with horrible guilt. He felt almost frantic with the need to make amends. He produced his own handkerchief and pressed it into Crowley’s hand.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

“That’s okay angel, it wasn’t your fault,” blubbered Crowley, blowing his nose with great force. It was, thought Aziraphale, it was my fault we argued, my fault I disagreed with you, my fault I rejected you. I’ve hurt you, hold me accountable for God’s sake. He didn’t say it out loud for fear that this would constitute more arguing. He went for a different tactic instead.

“You didn’t lose me and you never will. I’m always here, Crowley. I won’t ever leave, I promise.”

“Angel,” sighed Crowley and hugged him again. 

Aziraphale had used to be permitted into God’s actual presence, back when he was still a Cherub. Over six thousand years had passed since then in which he’d felt a sort of distant ache, the residual pain of separation from God, but he was now discovering that simply hugging Crowley was lessening it more than six millennia of habituation had. How blessed. How holy it was to love and be loved.

Crowley took a deep shuddering breath and gave him a watery smile.

“So,” he began. “Brand new start, yeah?”

“Brand new. Completely,” agreed Aziraphale. 

“We’ve never talked about it. But I’ve always,” he gestured vaguely, “got the feeling that we, well, had kinda a bit of tension? Y’know?”

“Um, I don’t quite understand,” Aziraphale smiled nervously. 

“Like, erm. If you, y’know, don’t, ahh, reciprocate exactly, I’m not pressuring you. I just thought, new start and all that, just narrowly escaped execution, it’d be a good idea to get it out in the open, even if we don’t end up doing anything with it.”

Aziraphale was worried. What did tension mean, exactly? He could guess, certainly, but he didn’t dare to. It would be wrong to presume. Nevertheless, he knew that some kind of response was expected of him. He smiled at Crowley, probably a poor, timid smile, but it was the best he could do. Crowley frowned.

“This-this isn’t too fast for you?” said Crowley 

A long time ago, during the War in Heaven, Aziraphale had been stabbed in the thigh by a demon. The sickening sensation of the point of the spear piercing his leg, combined with the sight of it sticking out of his own body, had made him feel a dizzying lurch of dread.

He felt something similar now.

Here was Crowley, trying to move their relationship forward the way he had wanted to for years, and all of Aziraphale’s past rejections and cruelties were hanging over him, making it impossible. 

He took a deep breath. 

“No,” he lied. “You could never go too fast for me. You’re, um,” he blushed horribly, “referring to romantic tension, are you not?”

“Yeah,” said Crowley, incredulously.

Aziraphale hadn’t been this afraid when he was in literal, actual, hell, with Crowley’s very life at risk.

“Well you have nothing to fear in that department.” He realized when he said it how horribly unromantic it sounded. “I mean. I have long had- or felt, rather- a certain-”  
“You love me,” said Crowley. And as if hearing it gave him permission somehow, Aziraphale clasped Crowley’s dear face in his hands and said:

“I love you.”

And he kissed him.

The sensation was overwhelming, and Aziraphale felt almost dizzy. He pulled away to collect himself, and saw Crowley looking at him with (it was difficult to believe) pure adoration. 

“I love you, angel,” he said.

Aziraphale felt like he was a new person, like God had just created him and looked at him and seen that he was good. Crowley tried to kiss him, but he got his arms around Crowley’s neck and hugged him instead. He felt something wet on his face, and discovered that he was really weeping now, probably leaving tears all over Crowley’s nice jacket, but he was far beyond being able to help himself. It was all so much. Even the thought of removing his face from where it was hidden in Crowley’s neck was overwhelming. Crowley was petting him so softly on the back, but it was almost too much for his frayed nerves. He focused on his breathing, making it slow and even as possible, until the feeling subsided slightly. He sat back.

“Here, angel,” said Crowley, passing him his glass. “Only right we should get blotto after saying that to each other.” His tone was over-bright, and he swallowed the whole contents of his glass in one gulp before pouring himself another.

Aziraphale did the same. They sat there pressed together for a time drinking heavily. The alcohol made the overwhelming buzz of sensation that was being curled up against Crowley until it was bearable. 

They finished a bottle that way. Aziraphale found himself glancing periodically at Crowley, only to see that Crowley was very pointedly looking away. They started on the second bottle, and Aziraphale looked surreptitiously at Crowley, only to find him doing the same back. 

Crowley snorted. Aziraphale felt himself grin in return, and soon they were both laughing hysterically. Several times when it seemed the laughing fit had subsided they would look at one another and be set off again.

“Satan look at us. Acting like a pair of fourteen-year-old humans”

“We might as well be. I don’t have any previous romantic experience, do you?”

“nah. Who would I have dated? Hastur?”

They both stuck their tongues out, Aziraphale with only slightly more decorum.

So they passed a pleasant few hours, sitting scandalously close on the chesterfield and sobering up at fairly regular intervals, only to drink the same wine all over again.  
It was probably about midnight when Crowley started to stir and make vague noises about going back to his gloomy flat.

“You can stay here, if you want to,” offered Aziraphale. “I’ve got a little flat,” he pointed above his head, “if you wanted to go up.”

“Gosh, angel. I never knew you had a flat.” Aziraphale was in instant damage control. How could he not have predicted that his refusal to so much as mention his flat would be read as a rejection?

“I’ve never had anyone else up there. It’s always been a very private place. Besides, it’s not as if I use it for much other than bathing and storing books.”

“You’ve never had anyone up there, not even to install your enormous claw foot bath?”

“I did everything myself from scratch, actually. How did you know I have an enormous bathtub? Am I really that predictable?”

“By no means. But when you’re predictable, you’re predictable.”

“Will you?” said Aziraphale, rising. Crowley took his hand and kissed it, leaving him momentarily frozen in shock. He wordlessly led Crowley to the little door marked “PRIVATE” which guarded the stairs to his flat. He began to worry, as he ascended the stairs, that he may have left the place in something in a mess, whenever he was last up there. There was really very little to be done about that, so he would have to put his trust in his past self, not that he was either a neat or a trustworthy person. 

His flat turned out to be just as he’d left it, including the ancient take-out box on the table and the mouldy cup of tea on the floor by his armchair. He quickly gathered these up and rushed them into the kitchen while Crowley made various sounds of surprise over his telly and his kitchen, the miraculously water-proof books in his bathroom and the contents of his toilette.

“Honestly Crowley,” he said, once he was in the bathroom and had swatted Crowley’s inquisitive hands off of some rather expensive bottles of this and that. “You couldn’t possibly have believed that my eyebrows look like this naturally. I’m blonde, darling!”

“Do you wear foundation?” Crowley asked, peering at Aziraphale’s face.

Aziraphale put a hand over his heart. “Crowley! You cannot possibly expect me to divulge such sensitive intelligence.”

“You do, you even-faced bastard. Ooh, you’ve got to lend me this eyeshadow someday.”

“You’re going to wear it… under your sunglasses?”

“No I’m going to wear it at home, you ninny.”

There was a pause while Crowley sniffed a few soaps. “It’s a nice flat,” he said. “Thank you for inviting me up.”

“It’s my pleasure,” said Aziraphale, and he meant it.

“I’m, uh, going to- is there anywhere in particular you want me to sleep?”

“You must have the bed, of course.”

“Didn’t want to assume, but thanks. Are you going to join me?” Aziraphale’s panic must have been visible on his face because Crowley quickly corrected. “We wouldn’t do anything. That’d be a bit too sudden. We could just sleep.” 

Aziraphale was so very tired but he was afraid of sleep. He had seen some fairly upsetting things lately and wasn’t keen on having a nightmare, which he knew from past experience he was prone to. Besides that, something about the idea of both of them unconscious at the same time nagged at him.

“I’m not sure. I’m not much of a sleeper, really,” he said with a nervous laugh.

“Suit yourself angel,” said Crowley. 

Aziraphale fussed about with the sheets a bit before a now pajama-clad Crowley firmly assured him that it was alright. Crowley climbed into bed and yawned hugely.  
“Goodnight, angel,” he said, and the lights in the room all went out at once.

Aziraphale stood in the doorway for a little while, watching the bump in the blankets move up and down slowly with Crowley’s breathing. Eventually he turned and left to find something to occupy himself for the night.

Aziraphale sat in his favorite chair and worried. It was a bit of a habit with him, for better or worse. Principally, he worried that Crowley looked out of place in his tartan bed. He’d always quite liked how colourful and cheerful it seemed, but now that he saw it next to Crowley it seemed crass and unnecessarily loud, ugly in fact. There must have been some unspoken law of interior design that he had missed through inattention which might have saved him from this faux-pas. Crowley, lovely creature that he was, had been kind enough not to mention it.

And yet Crowley loved him. He was certain that it must be true, for Crowley would never lie about something to important and it was undeniable that there had been a certain, as Crowley put it, tension between them down the years. Nevertheless he was still struggling with it a little. 

Aziraphale was happy about it, of course. He’d been at least a little bit in love with Crowley since the garden so he certainly want going to complain about the prospect of fulfilling one of his deepest and most desperate fantasies. What concerned him, he supposed, now that he thought about it, was his worry that he wouldn’t be good at it. Relationships, he had gathered, were hard work, involving communication, compromise, and empathy among other things. But he wasn’t an emotionally intelligent person. He wasn’t good at communicating with people- his difficulties with the other angels were proof enough of that. Crowley was the most important person in his life, the only person, now, except for God, and if he damaged their relationship then he would be utterly alone.

He wasn’t stoical, no matter how he tried to be. He didn’t know if he could bear to lose Crowley, most especially to lose him through his own foolishness, his own intractable idiosyncrasies. 

The thought was so upsetting that it propelled him to his feet and sent him off scouring his flat in search of a book to take his mind off his troubles. Every book that he pulled off the shelf and every cup of cocoa that he made only seemed to magnify his unhappiness when it inevitably proved unsatisfying. The telly, volume turned down low so as not to risk waking Crowley, only set his teeth on edge. It was a long and a miserable night.

The sky was beginning to lighten in the east when Aziraphale heard a peculiar sound coming from the bedroom. He rushed in, his mind filled with visions of avenging angels, his hands terribly, fatally empty of any weapon, only to find the room empty, but for Crowley of course. Crowley was lying small and alone in Aziraphale’s large and ugly bed, and he was making what sounded like small whimpering sounds. Aziraphale took him gently by the shoulder and shook him awake, careful not to startle him. When Crowley woke up he lurched awkwardly across the bed towards Aziraphale and grabbed at him, gasping for breath. 

“I dreamed they burned you,” he said. 

“I’m alright, dear,” ventured Aziraphale, stroking the curve of Crowley’s spine. “Everything’s alright now. We’re safe, remember?”

“Yeah,” sighed Crowley. “Just give me a little time. Fuck, angel, it was awful.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” said Aziraphale automatically, the formulaic phrase silly and inadequate as it had been the last time he’d used it, when Crowley had been crying over their bandstand fight. His arm tightened reflexively around Crowley.

When Crowley had calmed down a bit, the poor dear, he followed Aziraphale into the kitchen and watched him make some breakfast, starting with a nice soothing cup of tea, a cure which Aziraphale both thought of as cutting-edge medicine and as being highly effective. Crowley sipped his tea and watched Aziraphale putter about with an indecipherable expression on his face. 

“I suppose there isn’t any point in my saying “I didn’t know you could cook”, is there?” drawled Crowley.

“I’m six thousand years old,” said Aziraphale. “It’s not that difficult to fry an egg.”

“I always pictured you buying all your breakfasts from fussy little,” he waved a hand, “bakeries, or something. Didn’t imagine you’d get your hands dirty.”

I’m not as interesting as you think I am, thought Aziraphale. “I’m not quite as eccentric as all that.”

“Well they smell terrific, so I’m not complaining.”

“Don’t I remember you eating eggs raw?” said Aziraphale, suddenly struck with a powerful and slightly disturbing recollection of Crowley eating a whole, raw egg in one bite in a marketplace somewhere.

“Nyeeeh, yeah, it’s a possibility. I can picture myself doing that, now you mention it. A long time ago, though,” he amended when Aziraphale started tutting, “several millennia at least.”

“If I recall correctly, you used to do it in public. Quite a few people were horribly shocked, I imagine.”

“Well they should have minded their own business. Bloody nosy humans always prying into my personal eating habits.”

Aziraphale didn’t like to point out that Crowley had showily tossed the whole eggs into his open mouth, or that he had missed with a few of them, so they had breakfast in silence. Aziraphale felt a tremor of free-floating anxiety as he watched Crowley where he sat across the table, savoring his tea. Everything this morning was so peaceful and lovely, and the sky was the divinely pale colour of ice that was about to crack. 

“Um,” he started, finally unable to endure the tension any longer. “I know it’s quite reasonable for you to want-” he stopped himself.

Crowley hmmm’d at him, which was not remotely helpful.

“What I meant to say is-” what did he mean to say, again? “You’re always welcome here. If you wanted to be here, I mean. You could come back, or, or stay as long as liked, or… or whatever you wanted to do.”

“Are you inviting me to move in?” said Crowley.

How was Aziraphale meant to answer that? He couldn’t just say yes, that seemed quite presumptuous now that he thought of it. And of course saying no would be a lie, and worse, a rejection. He smiled instead of answering.

“We said some things last night,” started Crowley, looking at him very sideways.

Aziraphale leaped in. “and if you didn’t mean it, that’s quite alright. I don’t expect you to do anything.”

“But if I did mean it?”

“Completely and utterly welcome, dear boy.”

“So are you asking me to move in with you?”

Aziraphale wasn’t asking at all, he was making an offer. But he couldn’t afford to be stupid about this. “Yes,” he said, very quietly.

“Cos if you give me half a chance, I really will do it. I want to make sure it’s something you really want.” Aziraphale spared half a second to think about the sudden loss of quiet and privacy after a life of nothing but, about his incompetence at relationships, about how tired he was, how desperately he felt the bone-deep need to spend a good two or three months alone in peace to recuperate, about how sudden and shocking this change was. You go too fast for me, he thought. It was like being drenched in cold water.   
“I do want it, darling,” he said.

“Okay,” said Crowley, and took his hand. “If I’m totally honest, I don’t much fancy the idea of being alone at the moment. I’m sure you don’t either. I’m a bit on edge lately.”  
Aziraphale looked down at their joined hands and felt quite peculiar. 

*

They went together to Crowley’s flat that afternoon, so that Crowley could collect the a few things, and generally tidy up the place. Aziraphale hovered mostly, once he was done cleaning up the horrid residue of Ligur. He hummed quietly to himself as he scrubbed, so as not to think about Crowley meeting a similar fate.

Other than that, he didn’t have anything useful to do. Crowley opened all sorts of hidden, secret-looking doors and pulled out boxes of knickknacks, art, and memorabilia, sometimes shoving them into the miraculously larger-on-the-inside bag he had with him, other times looking at them and reminiscing. Aziraphale felt a pang at the realization of how many of Crowley’s treasured memories didn’t include him. When he was done with that, Crowley got out his prized and beloved Sainsbury’s plant mister and made the rounds of his plants. 

Aziraphale had always known, in a vague way, that Crowley was aggressive with his plants. He had been amused by Crowley’s exaggerated ideas about his plants’ sentience and he had found it funny that Crowley expended so much emotional energy on them. He hadn’t thought it would be like this. In truth, Crowley was more than aggressive, he was coldly furious. He hissed insults and barbs at his plants, which seemed so pretty to Aziraphale, telling them in menacing and quiet tones that horrible punishments would be meted out should they so much as think of failing him. The way Crowley talked made Aziraphale feel unaccountably peculiar. The room was terribly cold, wasn’t it?

“Isn’t it possible,” he said, in an annoyingly high and nervous voice, before he was even aware of wanting to speak, “isn’t it possible that they are trying their best already?”

Crowley turned to look at him from where he had been looming over a little plant. He looked tall.

“You might not even need to threaten them. I’m sure they’re fully-seized of your expectations and, um, eager as anything to carry them out.” He swallowed. “Even if they aren’t always perfect, there might be mitigating factors. I’m sure none of your plants actually want to disappoint you.” Aziraphale’s nervous laugh was grating.

Crowley was looking at him like he’d never seen him before and Aziraphale shifted his weight slightly, tightened the grip his right hand had on his left. Was it something I said? He thought.

“Maybe you’re right, angel. I’m finished with this for the day, anyway,” he said. Then he began packing his plants away in his little bag, not saying another word to them.

*

After Aziraphale’s funny turn, Crowley was unusually quiet. He drove the Bentley more slowly than Aziraphale could remember him doing for a long time. Aziraphale was well aware that he had overreacted, but he didn’t know for the life of him how to talk about it without coming across badly. Crowley didn’t mention it again, which was a small mercy. He bustled about the flat and bookshop, finding the optimal places for all his plants, chatting all the while about how to best care for each of them. He seemed to avoid Aziraphale’s gaze.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I love comments, so if you have the chance, please leave one. no obligation, of course.


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